


Faltering

by notenoughtogivebread



Series: Klaine Advent 2013 [4]
Category: Glee
Genre: M/M, Season/Series 03, Underage Drinking, scandals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-06
Updated: 2013-12-06
Packaged: 2018-04-09 10:17:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4344683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notenoughtogivebread/pseuds/notenoughtogivebread
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for Klaine Advent 2013. Blaine making his way home from the debacle in the Scandals parking lot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Faltering

Blaine’s steps faltered more than once on the walk home. The first time he was barely out of the parking lot, trying to decide whether to take the shortcut up the alley or go straight to College Avenue. The sweep of the headlights as Kurt turned the car his way decided him, and he stumbled into the damp alleyway.

He leaned against the wall just away from the light to watch the car pass, Kurt’s face a white, tense blankness behind the wheel. He must be so angry—and, oh God, hurt too. “Stupid, stupid, stupid.” He banged his head against the bricks with each repetition. Why did he mess up everything good in his life?

A small noise down the alley where a restaurant had its dumpster was his signal to get moving again. He worried about Mama sitting up; what would he say to her? What the hell—Kurt was driving his car. His muddled brain tried to come up with a story—maybe Kurt needed the car to visit a sick relative. Or bring home a puppy. Or fly to the moon…  
At the corner of Abbey and 8th Street, he stopped again. He dug through his pockets, dropping stuff—coins, a drinks token, the fake ID, slips of paper. He scrambled to pick everything up, then crossed Abbey to the Gas-n-Go. Maybe coffee would help.

In the bright lights of the convenience store he opened his billfold and tried to put everything back inside. The slips of paper turned out to be names and numbers—guys from the bar. His eyes filled with tears as he savagely pushed them into the trash bin along with the torn sugar packets and coffee stirrer. The guy behind the counter ignored the tears, and Blaine stumbled out, nursing the warm drink, heading down to cut through the elementary school parking lot.

He was almost home now, but he still had no story to tell Mama—or Dad. Oh, God, what if Dad was standing, tall as Cooper, on the porch waiting for him. He would know—he’d know about the bar, and that—that asshole Sebastian. And he’d know about the phone numbers, and the hands that must have slipped them, pushed them, into his pockets.

In the playground, he trailed to a stop again. He closed his eyes against the image of his father, but that was worse, because in the dark all he saw was Kurt. Kurt’s face, so angry and rejecting, yelling at him, always yelling. He was such a disappointment. He put the coffee down next to the swings, and plopped down to dangle in one for a bit.

Kurt had been so lovely tonight, his hair so high. Blaine liked the upsweep; he liked the way it drew attention to Kurt’s intelligent brow and pretty, pretty eyes. He allowed himself to think of him then, not just about his eyes and his hands—oh, his hands. But of how he’d felt on the dance floor, so close, all long muscles and those shoulders and his lovely strong thighs between Blaine’s legs…He sighed, and thought of earlier, of dancing with Sebastian, and looking for Kurt, always looking for Kurt.

His phone buzzed, and he fumbled it out. It dropped onto the soft ground and he followed it, then sat under the swing to read the message: “Hope you’re home safe. Your mom knows I have the car.”

No smilies or kisses or hugs. But it was love just the same, Blaine knew it. It’s just that sometimes it felt like the kind of love someone has for their puppy who keeps peeing on the rug. Not the kind you have for the guy who wants to be your gentleman, your partner, your everything.

His sat, his fingers running sadly through the wood chips, then typed out a quick, “Thanks. I’m almost there. Got some coffee.” He hesitated, wanting to say more, but what? He could say sorry, but what was he sorry for—for being so turned on by the most incredible guy in the world? No. For being too needy, too pushy, too—just too much Blaine. He jabbed send and struggled to his feet. He drained the last of the coffee and went out the back gate, heading up the hill to home. He wondered what would greet him there, wondered if he’d get any sleep tonight, wondered if Kurt would talk to him tomorrow, and wondered if he even wanted him to. It was all such a mess. He was such a mess.

He stood at the end of the drive. The light was on in the kitchen. He guessed Mama was there, thinking that he and Kurt had had a fight. He hoped so, ‘cause then she’d leave him be, not look too close, past the tears to the truth. He’d go in, lie in bed, and hope that maybe it would all be better in the morning. He had work to do, still had to find a way to be Rachel’s Tony. And maybe, possibly, find his way to being Kurt’s Blaine, too.


End file.
